Memory Remains
by Brambleshadow of WindClan
Summary: "When it's over, just the memory remains. We're all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?" The Doctor pays a visit to a grieving friend. [Sequel to Madman with a Box.]


**The title comes from the Metallica song. This takes place after my other story _Madman With a Box. _For the Doctor, it's before _The End of Time. _For Phil, it's maybe a few weeks after Steve's death.**

* * *

"**Memory Remains"**

Heavy snowfall dotted both gravestones and the frozen ground; but Phil Collen, standing in front of one particular grave, didn't feel the cold. He missed Steve—his bandmate, friend, Terror Twin, and (eventually) lover—missed him so much that it physically hurt. They'd played together for so many years that losing Steve felt like losing a part of himself.

Writing "White Lightning" for their new album had been a weird experience. It was as if Steve's ghost had been there with him, directing his fingers over the guitar strings. A line from that song played through Phil's head now: _You gotta taste that sweetness cos you can't say no, but are you ready for the nightmare when you can't let go?_

"I'm sorry, Phil," said a voice softly from behind him. "I'm so, so sorry."

Phil froze before slowly turning around. He'd never expected to hear that voice again, or see the man it belonged to. "Doctor," he said, surprised at how even his own voice sounded. "You haven't changed a bit. Don't you ever change?"

The Doctor, dressed in a brown suit with plimsolls; a swirly tie; red converse; and a long brown trenchcoat, gave a small smile. "You'd be surprised. And I mean it, Phil, I truly am sorry."

"You could have done something!" Phil's voice had turned bitter; he didn't care. "After you dropped us off, he just got worse. We tried helping him—we _did_—but the fact _you _almost got us killed by Vashta Nerada and werewolves and statues and God knows what else didn't help!"

"What could I have done?" the Doctor snapped. His expression softened. "Phil, it's a fixed point in time. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't change it."

Phil scoffed. "Whatever happened to the Time Lord Victorious? 'The laws of time are mine' and all that?" At the Doctor's surprised look he said, "Joe and Sav filled us in on what happened. Did you think they wouldn't? And who says Steve's death is fixed? Who decides that? You?"

The Doctor was quiet for a moment, as if he was finding the words. "What must be, what could, what should, what must not. That's how I see the universe. It's the burden of being a Time Lord, Phil."

"If you could go back . . ."

"Do you think I don't want to?" Phil recoiled at the barely-contained fury in the Doctor's voice, his expression. "If I could go back and save them—save Steve—then I would, but I can't. I can't, I just can't! I can't . . . I can't. . . ."

Somehow, Phil knew they weren't just talking about Steve. The guitarist averted his gaze from the Time Lord, studied Steve's grave instead. "Who did you lose, Doctor, aside from your people?" He knew there had been a war between the Time Lords and the Daleks—the Time War—that had left the Doctor as the only one of his kind. (Joe suspected that the Doctor had killed the rest of the Time Lords, and Phil, Sav and Rick were inclined to believe the same.) While exploring the TARDIS—the Doctor's time-and-spaceship disguised as a police box and one that was much bigger on the inside—him and Steve had found several other rooms that looked as though they'd once been lived in. Where the occupants were now, he had no idea.

"So many," the Doctor said, answering his question. "People have traveled with me before, and I've lost all of them. Recently I had a friend, Donna. She was brilliant. Called me spaceman; saved the world. And now she can't even remember me, 'cause if she does her mind will burn and she will die. Martha . . . it got complicated. She fancied me."

"You didn't shag her, did you?"

"No. I didn't even like her that way. I wasn't even looking for a companion when I picked her up, not after—" He broke off. Phil could hear the scrape of shoes scuffing against frozen ground. At least he was getting closer.

"Who did you lose, Doctor?" he asked again.

"Rose. Her name was Rose."

"Is she . . .?" (He couldn't bring himself to say it, not while looking at Steve's grave—it would make it real if he did.)

"No, she's alive, but she's in a parallel universe. The first time was an accident, but I couldn't go after her, not without tearing a Belgium-sized hole in both universes. The second time, I left her with a half-human clone of myself. He has only one heart so he'll age just like the rest of your species and won't regenerate."

"So Rose got you, but you didn't get her."

". . . Yeah."

"That's harsh, mate. You wish it had been you, don't you?"

"Yes, but . . . Phil, I don't age. I just regenerate. My companions can spend the rest of their lives with me, but I can't spend the rest of my life with them."

"Why are you here, Doctor?"

"'No promises, no guarantees. When you come down here, you're already on your knees. You wanna ride white lightning then sign your name. You wanna dance with the devil, better play his game.'"

Phil whipped around. "That's one of ours."

"Yep. Time traveler, remember?"

"Like you ever let us forget it."

Something the Doctor had said the first time he'd met them played in Phil's mind. "You knew all along how he was going to die, didn't you? You _knew_."

"Time Lord, Phil. I can see Time curling around you now, all the many possible timelines. I've already told you how I see the universe."

A peal of bitter laughter escaped the guitarist. "Doesn't that drive you mad?"

"It did for a while, but you and your band helped me, made me a better person. You've been through so much as a group; I've been on my own."

"Can you die?" Phil didn't know why he'd asked that, but he had.

"Oh, yes. If I'm killed before regeneration, then I'm dead." The Doctor's voice, which had been sad, turned slightly bitter. "Even when I change it feels like dying. Everything I am dies and some new man goes sauntering away. And I am dead."

Those brown eyes were old, so, so old. They were the eyes of an old man trapped in a ridiculously young body—and yet, there was now a strange sort of bond between the two of them, human and Time Lord.

"My song is ending," the Doctor said, "and I don't want it to. I could do more. I could do so. Much. _More! _And no one's ever really thanked me. I've saved your planet more times than you know, and what's my reward?"

"Everything dies, Doctor." Phil had to look away from his Terror Twin's resting place as he said that.

"Oh, I know. Believe me. Nobody knows that more than I do. But some people live more in twenty years than others do in eighty. It's not the time that matters, it's the person." The Doctor stuck a hand inside his coat, pulled it out, and handed what was in it to Phil. "Here you go. It's the finished product. All four of you dedicated it to Steve. And Phil, he'll never be forgotten, especially not by you or the fans." He turned to go.

"And what about you, Doctor?" Phil asked. "Where are you going now?"

"I have to see an Ood about the end of the world. But really, if you think about it, all that's left are memories. When it's over, just the memory remains. We're all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?"

Then the Doctor was gone, leaving Phil with the cold, the grave, and nothing else but memories.

Maybe "White Lightning" wasn't just about Steve. In a way, maybe it was about the Doctor, too.

_Such a lonely road you ride. It's not easy when you don't know why. Such a heavy load you hide. You never leave no matter how you try. Run—he's coming to claim you. Run—nowhere to hide away. Run—you dance with danger. Run—you gotta ride the white lightning on a dead end street. White lightning—where the deadbeats meet. White lightning—it's a one-way ride. White lightning—oh, there's nowhere to hide . . ._


End file.
